


The Dragonriders

by CommaSplice



Series: Haunted Westeros [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Gen, Ghosts, Scary Clowns, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Is that mine?” Shireen grabbed the coffee. “<i>That</i> was the weirdest thing I have ever seen.” It was a lie. What she had witnessed while doing her laundry earlier that morning had been the weirdest thing she’d ever seen, and unless Crownlands Paranormal Investigations could help, Shireen had the feeling things were only going to get a lot stranger. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>She didn’t hold the door open for him. Patchface knew better than to materialize when she was out of the building.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Men without Hats

**Author's Note:**

> If you're phobic about clowns, well, Patchface is here.

* * *

The blonde barista’s mouth went slack-jawed as she stared at the spot behind Shireen for way too long. It was an expression Shireen had seen before. It meant that the barista could see _him_. That indicated that the barista was a sensitive (or possibly under the influence, but Shireen liked to give people the benefit of the doubt). Also—and Shireen could have predicted this coming from a mile away—the barista wasn’t paying attention to the coffee anymore and now it was starting to pour out the top of the cup.

“Fuck!” 

In swooped the manager. “Cerenna, what did I tell you before about your language?”

The barista was backing away and pointing. “What in the seven hells is that?”

Unfortunately for Cerenna, the manager was neither a sensitive nor drunk nor high. “What is what?” she snapped before facing Shireen and adopting an apologetic voice. “I’m very sorry, miss.”

Shireen deliberately turned around and jumped. “Oh my gods.”

“You see it too?” Cerenna seemed glad to have the confirmation that she was not, in fact, crazy.

“See what?” the manager asked, baffled.

Shireen glared at him and he had the grace to fade just enough so that the color came back into the blonde barista’s face. Meanwhile one of the other baristas filled her order.

“What?” The manager was craning her neck and looking very confused.

“Is that mine?” Shireen grabbed the coffee which hopefully would make her feel less logy. “ _That_ was the weirdest thing I have ever seen.” It was a lie. What she had witnessed while doing her laundry earlier that morning had been the weirdest thing she’d ever seen, and unless Crownlands Paranormal Investigations could help, Shireen had the feeling things were only going to get a lot stranger. 

She didn’t hold the door open for him. Patchface knew better than to materialize when she was out of the building.

* * *

To get to Dragonstone from King’s Landing you had two choices. You could fly to Maidenpool and rent a car until you got to Rook’s Rest and then you took a ship to the island. Alternatively, you could fly to Harrenhal and make two connecting flights, the last of which was a prop plane.

The first option was cheaper. The second was faster. 

Asha was equally unsurprised and pissed when Davos and Melisandre decided on the former. Even though they’d picked up more jobs since the case at the yuppie hotel, thanks in no small part to the publicity they’d received, money was still pretty tight. In theory, the new cases should have made everything much better. The problem was, since the job at The Crossing, the tension was getting worse with every day. 

So naturally they were on a trip that put them together in close quarters for the better part of a day and a half. And it was just her luck that she was stuck on a fucking ship.

“But you grew up on Pyke,” Sam said for the fifth time.

Asha lifted her head from between her knees. 

“I mean your ancestors practically lived at sea. They were reavers, ironborn.”

“Sam?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Why don’t you go take your history lessons to someone who cares?”

He got that hurt, puppy dog expression on his face, but he made no move to leave. 

“If you do not get the fuck out of here I am going to puke all over your fancy green shirt that your grifter friends, fucking Robb and Margaery Tyrell Stark, got you for lying like a rug on the TV news.”

Davos clapped him on the shoulder. “Out.”

Sam’s eyes grew even sadder, but he shuffled off. 

“Asha, I know you’re upset about Qarl.”  


“Qarl is a piece of shit that I am better off without.” She didn’t mention the other piece of shit, Justin Massey and his fucking hair. Both of them with their fucking haircare regimens and their lying mouths could go die as far as she was concerned.

Davos nodded. “And I know you’re not happy about what Sam and Melisandre did at The Crossing, but for the sake of the business, we all need to move past it.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that you’ve forgiven them.”

He didn’t answer her.

“I’m not a crook, Davos. I took this job because even if most of the clients were bat shit crazy, I thought _we_ were on the up and up.”

Davos chewed on his lip. “Melisandre and Sam gave me their word that they wouldn’t be party to any dishonesty ever again.”

And it was clear he believed them—or wanted to believe them. She was about to reply when the contents of her stomach roiled again.

“I scrounged some Dramamine if it’ll help.” 

Asha took the bottle of water he offered. “It never has before.” Out of desperation she had just taken two of the pills from Dr. Qyburn. They were old and he was a quack that she hadn’t seen in years because he’d started to skeeve her out, but they were the only thing that worked. It just took a little longer for them to kick in and there were . . . side effects, but right now she did not care. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

“Will you be up for a briefing? The client wants us out at his place right away.”

She could feel the meds starting to kick in because her stomach was no longer lurching. “Yeah.” 

“This sounds like it’s going to be . . .”

“Weird,” Asha finished. She had read all the notes and she had to agree with Davos. “Very fucking weird.”

* * *

Melisandre missed driving with Davos. Davos claimed he had forgiven her, but that was plainly not true because here she was being driven up to the client’s home by Sam. Sam was a clever young man, but he was terrible behind the wheel and he would persist in talking when she wanted quiet.

“—Black stone dating back to over a thousand years—”

She switched on the radio and persisted punching buttons until she located WPR. There, now Sam would fall silent. 

_. . . not experienced it. But it’s real. As I was dressing for breakfast one morning, B, who is four years old, came to my room and asked me why I’d called him. I told him I’d not called him, that I’d not been in his room. With big and startled eyes he said, ‘Who was it, then, that called me?_

Melisandre knew she’d heard this before, but before she could recall precisely, Sam turned the volume down and kept on talking. 

She tried to tune him out by focusing on the file. Stannis Baratheon, retired dot-com millionaire (the information Asha had found put his age at fifty-three) was their client. His daughter, Shireen, was in her twenties and currently living with him while she attended university. Neither had a history of mental illness and they had been at their current address on and off for the past fifteen years without experiencing any paranormal activity. 

“—filled with history and—”

The incident log was meticulous, but sparse in content. Usually their clients included every detail. Davos had commented that Mr. Baratheon had a “just the facts” approach to reportage. 

“—Asha is still mad at us.”

She was, but Melisandre was less concerned with the good opinion of Asha Greyjoy than she was with that of Davos Seaworth. She had a calling, a mission as it were, and the respect of others was meaningless.

Except it wasn’t. 

She’d never known how much his respect had mattered until she lost it. 

After the initial blow-up, Davos had calmed down long enough to lecture her at length about how intentionally corroborating a false account of paranormal activity—to the news media, no less—had damaged the integrity of their business. Until she realized it was pointless, Melisandre endeavored to make him see reason. There was a big picture to consider, a greater good. The client had not been cheated. What did it really matter?

“—It’s just a shirt. Margaery said it brought out my—”

The argument had fizzled out after a few days. By nature, Davos was not prone to prolonged fits of ill temper, but something was not quite right. He found ways to avoid being around her. When they went out to see clients, he always arranged for Sam to drive with her. It bothered her more than it should have. There had been a routine. They’d even liked the same radio stations. But now . . . now Davos was no longer as invested in the business, in future clients, in anything really that had to do with Crownlands Paranormal Investigations. Davos came to the office. He did all the things he normally did, but he wasn’t . . . present.

“—doesn’t know anything about heirloom vegetables, especially not onions. I don’t see how Davos can make a career out of it.”

Melisandre’s attention snapped back to Sam. 

“It must just be a pipe dream. Davos would never leave the business . . . would he?”

* * *

Davos was glad he had taken the minivan keys away from Asha. She had mellowed out since getting off the ship, but she was worrying him. She’d taken something for the seasickness, but whatever it was it was making her very loopy.

_With big and startled eyes he said, ‘Who was it, then, that called me? Who made that pounding noise?’_

_"I told him it was undoubtedly the wind rattling his window. ‘No,’ he said, ‘It was not that. It was somebody that called me. Who was it?’ And so on he talked, insisting that he’d been called and for me to explain who it had been.”_

Davos was getting into the story, when Asha reached over to pet his head.

“ _That_ is what a man’s hair should feel like.”

He began scanning the side of the road for a Starbucks or a Tim Horton’s. Some place where he could get her a gallon of espresso and maybe sober her up.

_“ . . . are held down in their beds by unseen figures. Beds shake. Their plants die. They and their children feel weak and they have no . . .”_

“Oh, fuck that,” she said. “Who needs talk radio?”

Davos did not consider ‘This Westerosi Life’ talk radio. He’d heard the episode before, but it had been a good one. 

Asha fiddled with the buttons, rejecting first punk rock, then alternative, until finally and unaccountably settling on a station featuring a three-song medley from The 5th Dimension for some guy named Bowen. Two beats behind and with great gusto, she sang along.

Davos stood it as long as he could which was the first stanza of “Up, Up and Away” before switching it off. “No more. Please.”

They drove in merciful silence for a long time.

* * *

Barbrey Dustin loved her sister, but Bethany just didn’t understand. “If I waited for it to stop raining, I would never be able to leave the apartment.”

“Then why are you complaining about it?”

Barbrey was past the stage where logic mattered. She was irritated at everything and everyone. Her head was killing her. It never stopped raining and she knew no one on this miserable island and who better than to bitch to than her sister?

“I still don’t know why you couldn’t find something closer to home. You could have moved in with us.”

“Where? White Harbor?” Barbrey peered out her windows. “Your husband hates me.” She was not over fond of him either.

“Alliser doesn’t hate you,” Bethany objected without much conviction.

At least one knew where one stood with Bethany’s second husband. Alliser Thorne had a transparent way about him. It wasn’t like it had been with Roose, who wore that little smile on his face whether he was pleased or angry. 

“Are you still having the headaches?”

She was. Wretched ones that weren’t responding to over-the-counter medication, but still she lied. If she told Bethany, her sister would just use it as yet another excuse for why she should move back home. Northern doctors, Bethany was sure to argue, were far superior to southron ones. Ordinarily Barbrey would agree with her, but she was damned if she was going to admit she’d made a mistake by coming to live on this stormy island in this depressing, creepy apartment building. “I’m fine.” Barbrey wished she could say the same for her houseplants. She’d tried everything and for some strange reason they were dying. 

“Why not Moat Cailin then?” Bethany asked, returning to her original argument. “If it rains all the time on Dragonstone . . .” 

Barbrey slid open the balcony doors. There was a drizzle, but the wind had died down. “You can’t shovel rain.” 

She had wanted an apartment with an ocean view. Instead she had what the realtor optimistically referred to as a “garden view.” The garden still had its fabled pine trees and wild roses, but she had to either go out on the balcony or crane her neck to look down at them. If she gazed straight across, she was treated to ancient stone walls with grim carvings of psychotic-looking dragons. 

Her sister turned the discussion to other things, but Barbrey stayed put. It was warm here in the Stormlands. That was another reason for moving south. She was so sick of the cold. 

“Did you get Domeric’s latest album?”

Barbrey confirmed she had received the CD. It sat atop a pile of mail on a kitchen chair. She knew she should probably remove the plastic wrapping and play it, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do so yet. As much as Barbrey loved her nephew, but she wasn’t terribly fond of folk music, let alone “acid folk,” whatever that was.

“Roose hasn’t listened to it either,” Bethany commented without rancor. “I’ll email you some of the reviews. That’s what I did for Roose. He has even less of an ear than you.”

She would be damned if she was going to talk about Roose with Bethany. “That’s strange,” she said as she looked over and down.

“What?”

“Two grey minivans pulled up in the apartment parking lot. The people seem . . . odd.” Although given the things she’d been seeing in the halls and the noises she’d been hearing lately, perhaps odd was the wrong word.

“This is how you spend your time? Spying on the neighbors?"

There was a woman in a crimson-red dress and hair that was might as well have been dyed-to-match. It was hard to tell much about the two men with them, but the fat one was trying to corral the other woman, who was wandering around somewhat aimlessly.

“They’re not neighbors.”

“Workers then?” Bethany suggested.

“I know who belongs in this building and who doesn’t. They don’t.” Now they were staring back and forth from the building to the massive walls and gate through which they had driven. Barbrey couldn’t blame them. She had done the same thing the first time she’d arrived. Everyone did.

It was almost too bad Beth had divorced Roose years ago. The wyverns and gargoyles would have appealed to him. They disturbed Barbrey—not that she would ever admit it. There were stairs you could take that took you up and around the walls. She’d attempted the walk only twice. 

A trick of the eye, Barbrey had told herself firmly. The afternoon light had shifted and it had made it seem as if—no, there had been nothing there—absolutely nothing. Stone dragons couldn’t move.

* * *

“Wow.” 

As spacy as Asha sounded, Davos had to admit she was right. He’d done a fair amount of traveling in his day, and the scenery here was stunning. To get to Aegon’s Garden Apartments, you drove up a winding road up the side of a dormant volcano. All around were ruins, remnants of black stone walls, behind which you could see more modern-looking houses and businesses. 

He navigated the minivan through a grove of incredibly tall pine trees. A discreet sign hanging over an open archway indicated they were at their destination. He slowed down so he could take in the curved walls surrounding the apartment building. There were steps carved into the stone. If he craned his neck out the window, he could see iron railings on top of the wall. “I bet the view is spectacular.”

“Men and their fucking moisturizers.”

Davos stared at her. “Are you sure you’re all right?” 

Asha gave the thumbs-up sign. 

Perhaps he should make her wait in the car. Not for the first time, he wished he was driving with Mel again. For all her drama, she made for a much more restful driving companion. She was also willing to listen to WPR with him. 

“That’s ugly as shit,” Asha commented as they caught their first sight of the actual apartment building.

Davos had to concur. After the haunting beauty of the ruins, it was a bit disconcerting to come face to face with an aqua and pink concrete mid-century modern horror. “We’re not here for the décor.”

They met up with Melisandre and Sam, and were buzzed in by their client. He met them at his apartment door. 

Stannis Baratheon was a severe-looking man with close-cropped hair and deep blue eyes. He had been hesitant on the phone and when he saw them, he actually seemed as if he might slam the door shut. But then he inhaled, and they went through the formalities

Davos tried to tell himself that the client frowning at his missing fingers was nothing unusual. Most people did that. Hell, at the elementary school, the fourth-grade teacher had actually screamed upon seeing him (although he thought they could put that down to her prophetic dream). But unless Mr. Baratheon had been having visions too, his expression was of outright distrust. It didn’t help that Melisandre had chosen to wear one of her wackier outfits—the red dress that made her look like she was a refugee from Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights” video—or that Sam seemed to be perspiring more than usual.

It certainly did not help when Asha greeted the client. “Finally, a man who doesn’t fuck around with his hair.”

Stannis Baratheon was plainly startled and not a little alarmed.

“I bet you don’t even own a comb.” She smiled lazily. “I am so sick of the pretty boys.”

“Asha,” Davos Seaworth hissed. 

The client focused on Davos. “Coffee?” he hazarded. 

Davos nodded gratefully. “Bit damp out there. I know we’d all welcome something hot.” He eyed Asha. “Strong black coffee sounds like just the ticket.” He glanced around. The client’s apartment was on the spare side, but everything looked very high-end and quite comfortable. The only odd note were the dying philodendrons; Davos had been under the impression that the only thing that would kill those was Clorox. 

It may have sounded like just the ticket, but two and a half cups later, all it had done was to make Asha Greyjoy hyper. 

“I sense nothing in this apartment,” Melisandre announced.

“Oh, now you sense nothing, you skanky—”

“—ASHA,” Davos barked. 

Outright alarm was etched all over Mr. Baratheon’s features.

“Your incident log indicated the events have happened at no specific time,” Melisandre persisted. She had risen and was wandering around the living room. 

“They don’t.”

Davos glanced at Asha and then wished he hadn’t. She had a lazy, no, a lecherous smile on her face and she seemed poised to pounce all over the client.

“Your pupils are dilated,” Dr. Tarly said suddenly. “And you’re flushed. Asha, what did you take?”

Now the client would think she was a drug addict. “Sam, we can discuss this later.”

Dr. Tarly ignored Davos and repeated his question. “Asha, what did you take?”

Before she could answer, a young woman let herself in. “Hi, Father. Sorry, I’m—

Both Melisandre and Asha screeched.

* * *

Barbrey heard screams coming from the Baratheon apartment. Cautiously, she went to the door taking the phone with her. She’d been hearing odd sounds lately, but they’d always been faint, like the conversation of people who had turned a corner. These sounded all too close and all too real.

The man from across the hall had opened his too. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Barbrey hesitated. “Should we call 911?”

“Viserys, what’s going on?” A young woman joined him. 

They looked like they belonged in a _Lord of the Rings_ movie, possibly cast as elves, Barbrey thought. “The screaming stopped.”

“Still it’s weird,” Viserys of the silver hair and the violet eyes said. “Should we call just to be safe?”

Barbrey was starting to dial when the door opened. 

A woman with dirty-blonde hair and tight jeans ran out. “It’s a fucking clown! With face tattoos! First the ship, now the clown! It’s too much, Davos.”

“Asha, calm down.” Davos, whoever he was, looked respectable enough if you ignored the fact that he was missing the fingertips from his right hand. 

“No, I will not calm the fuck down. It’s got blood on its lips!”

Barbrey exchanged uneasy glances with the people in the apartment across the hall. 

“Uh, what’s going on?” Viserys asked. 

“What’s going on is that kid has a fucking clown singing about anemones under the sea and starfish soup,” Asha ranted before turning to stare at him. “You have stupid hair.”

Barbrey privately agreed with her, but wondered if this was really the time.

“Sorry about this,” Davos told them apologetically. “Asha, come back in. She said he won’t hurt you—whatever it is.”

Asha allowed herself to be coaxed back in. 

“Okay, _that_ ,” the girl with the long silver hair said, “That was very weird.”

* * *

Now that the shock was over, Melisandre was surprised to realize how disconcerted she still was. She’d seen things all of her life: spirits who didn’t know they were dead, demons, past events, sometimes things that yet were to come, but this was the first time she had ever seen anything like Patchface.

What was even stranger was that Asha saw him too. 

Shireen wasn’t surprised. “People can sometimes.”

“Under what circumstances?” Sam had out the camera and the audio equipment. This was normally mostly Asha’s job, but she was watching Patchface warily from the corner of the room. Somehow she’d acquired a carving knife and whenever the clown ambled her way, she would raise it. 

“Well, if you’re a sensitive like uh, Melisandre? Did I get that right? They can see him or if . . . well . . .”

“Those who are intoxicated or high see it too,” Stannis Baratheon interjected with a disgusted look at Asha.

Davos was going through Asha’s bag. “She said she took something for the seasickness. It must have made her . . .”

_“Under the sea no one wears hats. I know. I know . . .”_

Asha waved the carving knife at the clown. “No one wears hats? ‘Under the sea no one wears hats’?”

The client, Davos, and Sam stared at her. Melisandre noticed that the young woman did not. “You can hear him and see him too.”

Shireen nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Why wasn’t this included in the incident log?” Melisandre shook her head at the omission. “And what else does he say?”

“I think they’re songs. Patchface would never bring harm to anyone.”

Davos scratched his forehead. “You were the one who called us initially, right?”

“Well, yes.” Shireen smiled at Patchface. “But I shouldn’t have done that. He’s my friend.”

“His lips are dripping with your blood, kid.”

Everyone turned to Asha.

She pointed at nowhere in particular. “Shit, there are skulls there too.”

Melisandre frowned. She reached out with her mind and then she screamed again.

* * *

There were only two things keeping Stannis from bodily removing the Crownlands Paranormal Investigations team: Davos Seaworth and the rapidly worsening situation with Shireen.

Mr. Seaworth had radiated calm. Not only had he managed to retrieve the carving knife from Asha Greyjoy, he had also wrested the pill bottle from her, which he then handed off to Dr. Tarly. After that, he calmed down the woman in the extraordinary red dress and directed them to escort their stoned colleague to the hotel.

He repeated the explanation, vouched for the Greyjoy woman’s character, and offered to bow out. 

Perhaps there were three things. Stannis hesitated as he recalled the words Asha Greyjoy had uttered. They brought to mind an earlier incident.

_“‘Under the sea no one wears hats?’” Robert roared. “What in the seven hells?”_

_“Robert, I said you could stay, but I must rescind my offer if you’re going to start drinking again.”_

_“There’s a clown with a tattooed face dancing around Shireen! Can’t you see it, Stannis?”_

Shireen was sitting on the sectional amiably chatting to something he could neither see nor hear.  
“Father, you must not worry. Patchface is my friend. He would not hurt me.”

Stannis had turned to Davos. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Seaworth. Tomorrow morning at 9:00?”

The morning after, everyone was a great deal calmer. Asha Greyjoy, aside from looking exhausted and wan, mumbled an apology. “That’s what I get for taking meds from a doctor who operated from inside of a hardware store. It’s just it’s the only thing that ever helps with the seasickness. I . . . uh . . . did I touch you?”

“You were very taken with my hair,” Stannis managed, feeling himself redden.

“Fu—sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Davos Seaworth took control. “As your daughter is out getting coffee, perhaps we can get your take on the situation. We have your incident log and your emails, but it appears you left a few things off.”

Stannis thought this was a sound approach. “I believe the first date on the log is correct. We lived here for years before that, though. But these incidents . . . it started with a storm. It was brutal. The power went out. There was talk of evacuation, but it finally started to die down. Shireen had fallen asleep. I was standing by the window watching the sea when she woke up screaming. She said she saw a clown dancing around and trying to juggle. Shireen was terrified of him—Patchface—in the beginning.”

Melisandre leaned forward. “And you, yourself, saw nothing?”

“I couldn’t see this clown at all. I assumed it was just a nightmare. She used to have night terrors as a child. I saw . . .”

They were all waiting. 

“It was a trick of the light,” Stannis said defensively.

Dr. Tarly prompted, “What was?”

“It was quite odd. I was watching the sea and for a moment, I thought I saw a ship—a wooden ship sinking into the water.” He wondered if he should mention the incidents in the hallway. “I have heard . . . a few things.”

They waited.

“Two or three times . . . I’ve been coming up the hallway from the elevator and I’ve heard . . . snatches of conversation, but when I turn around there’s no one there. And once I thought I saw someone up out of the corner of my eye.” He pointed to the short passage between the living room and the bedrooms, before continuing, “going into Shireen’s room. But when I got up to check, there was no sign of them.”

Dr. Tarly scribbled this down. “Them?”

“A woman in a white longish dress.”

“Why are the ghostly women always in white gowns?” Asha Greyjoy grumbled.

Stannis could have done without her tone which combined both skepticism and derision. “The . . . apparition wore modern attire.”

They wrote this down and asked him more questions. 

Stannis answered them as best he could, swallowing his irritation when more than a few of the queries covered material with which he had already provided them. The pounding headache he’d been battling was not helping. 

“Your log indicated that at first your daughter only reported seeing this clown on the grounds and in the building.”

“Yes. Her mother and I were thought that it was a symptom of a mental illness at first.” He saw the question forming on Dr. Tarly’s face. “I’m divorced, but I’m on good terms with Shireen’s mother. She was as concerned as I was. That was why I contacted you initially, when we found out Shireen had engaged your services. We thought she was suffering hallucinations.”

“But then that was ruled out?”

“Not exactly,” Stannis hedged. Other than Patchface, Shireen was asymptomatic, but visual and auditory hallucinations were fairly significant symptoms. “One day, Shireen and I were down in the parking lot when the neighbor’s cleaning woman started screaming. She could see Patchface, you see. There were a few other ‘witnesses.’ Their descriptions of him and what he said matched Shireen’s. It’s all in the incident log.” Stannis waited, but Dr. Tarly merely nodded, so he continued. “And then Shireen started seeing Patchface outside of the grounds.”

Mr. Seaworth leaned forward. “That’s when you asked us to come out the first time.”

“Not precisely.” Stannis took a deep breath. “My brother saw him. He’s an alcoholic. Individuals under the influence can see this Patchface.”

Asha Greyjoy groaned.

“He said much the same thing as you did,” Stannis told her. “The song you heard? ‘Under the sea no one wears hats’? He heard those words too.”

“Might we talk to your brother?” Dr. Tarly inquired. “He might have seen or heard something that could be enlightening.”

“You’ll have to wait, Dr. Tarly. Robert checked himself into a rehab hospital to dry out. He’s still in isolation.”

Melisandre waved this away as being of no importance. “When did your daughter become more comfortable with the clown’s presence?”

“Not long after that. Almost overnight, Shireen told me there was no problem—that he was her friend and would never hurt her. She talks to him almost exclusively now.” Stannis hesitated before continuing, “Shireen has been acting more oddly too. She has always referred to me as ‘Dad.’ When she was little, she called me ‘Daddy.’ Now Shireen only calls me ‘Father.’”

Melisandre drew herself up. It was evident she found what he was saying alarming. Stannis couldn’t blame her. He found it alarming too.

“I believe that brings you up to date.” He looked at each of them in turn. “What is your next course of action?”

They all glanced at Melisandre. 

“Next,” she said, “I deal with this Patchface.”

* * *

Daenerys stood on the balcony staring out to the Narrow Sea. It was raining again and the smoky black clouds on the horizon suggested that she would not be out here for long. It never seemed to stop raining in the Stormlands, but although this wasn’t the typical weather she’d experienced here, she was rather enjoying the breeze caressing her through her thin silk dress and the ocean and the moment. The throbbing in her temples had abated and she was finally starting to relax.

And then she heard the screaming again. 

Viserys had his headphones on and his eyes closed while he listened to one of Rhaegar’s old albums. He might be napping. She would never admit this aloud, but she privately thought that their late brother’s music was only slightly less sleep-inducing than that of his arch-rival, Yanni. 

Once again, she opened the doors to stare straight into the eyes of the neighbor from across the hall. Daenerys now knew this was Barbrey Dustin—a surreptitious peep at the mailbox in the lobby corresponding to her apartment number had told her so. 

“Those people are here again,” Mrs. Dustin told her. “The strange ones who came in the minivans with the rental plates.”

“Should we call someone?” The screaming seemed to have stopped and there could be issues if she was seen to be involved with the police. Daenerys knew, though, to whom Mrs. Dustin referred. She’d seen them in the parking lot yesterday. 

Mrs. Dustin stared at Stannis Baratheon’s apartment door for mere seconds before marching to it. She rapped sharply. 

When no one answered, she called out, “What’s going on?”

A minute later, Stannis Baratheon, the brother of the man who had destroyed Daenerys’ father, opened the door. He stepped out, carefully pulling it shut behind him. He addressed them with weary irritation, “I apologize for the disturbance.”

“We heard screaming.”

“There is no cause for alarm.”

He sounded so calm that Daenerys half believed him, but as soon as the last word was out of his mouth, the screaming started again. 

Daenerys knew he was divorced. There was a daughter in her early twenties who lived with him—Shireen Baratheon—she knew from the reports the private investigator had done. “Then who’s that?”

He was backing up.

“Answer her or we call the police,” Mrs. Dustin demanded.

Before Stannis Baratheon could answer, the heavyset man with the pit stains, who yesterday Daenerys had seen trying to calm down the strung-out woman who had been yelling about clowns with blood, came out. “Mr. Baratheon? Melisandre is ready for you now.”

“Tell them,” Stannis Baratheon ordered. 

“What?”

“Tell them for what I am needed, Dr. Tarly.”

Dr. Tarly stared at him. 

Involuntarily, Daenerys and Mrs. Dustin stepped forward. Through the open door, they could see Shireen Baratheon being held down by the guy with the beard and the now sober woman. She was struggling and yelling. 

“911,” Mrs. Dustin said with grim determination.

Daenerys gaped. “Do you see that?”

_In the dark the dead are dancing._

Mrs. Dustin pushed closer. “Oh my gods.”

“It’s a fool, in motley,” Stannis Baratheon said in an awed voice. “It’s not really a clown at all.”

“Seven hells,” Dr. Tarly whispered. “We can all see it?”

Barbrey Dustin had a complexion nearly as pale as Daenerys’, but she was beyond sheet white now. “ _What is that?_ ”

Stannis Baratheon regained control. With quiet dignity he said, “If you will excuse me, I am needed for the exorcism.”

* * *


	2. Waking the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will lead it. We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming, oh, oh, oh.”_
> 
> _“That does not sound good,” Sam announced._
> 
> _Asha rolled her eyes. “You think?”_

* * *

This was Asha’s first experience with possession. The ghost of Queen Cersei had been sent onto the next spiritual plane with talk therapy and she still wasn’t sure how Mel had dispatched Biter, but neither of those entities had been tied to any living person in particular. Patchface and Shireen Baratheon seemed to be linked together.

There was a bond, Mel said, a bond that would need to be severed and there was no time to waste. 

Shireen wasn’t having any of it. She was a slightly built young woman and Asha knew ordinarily she could take her with no difficulty, but if there was one thing Asha was starting to understand, it was that in these kinds of crazy cases, human physical strength wasn’t enough. It was like the supernatural had access to a gym with really great equipment and superior trainers. 

It was also getting progressively creepier in the living room. Not only could they all see and hear Patchface, but now everywhere he and Shireen went, pools of musty saltwater and dank seaweed appeared in their wake. 

“Any progress on the research?” Davos asked as Melisandre intoned something impressive sounding. 

No one could follow her. Asha guessed Melisandre was speaking in the language of Asshai, but really had no idea. For all Asha knew, Mel was reciting the menu for Denny’s in her native tongue. Although for the first time ever, she was inclined to think it was actually some kind of incantation. She’d always been skeptical about Mel’s “powers” before; Asha had believed that Mel had taken a vague sensitivity and exaggerated it into a job. But now . . . now she _knew_ that wasn’t the case.

“I’m working on it,” Sam protested. “All I have so far is the Stannis Baratheon who was a contender for the Iron Throne back in the fourth century. His parents were drowned in a storm while he and his older brother watched.”

Asha knew the client was a skeptic too. But when you had a full-sized clown in your mid-century modern living room capering about and singing, _“Fool’s blood, king’s blood, blood on the maiden’s thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye.”_ it was very hard to hold onto doubt.

“The ship I thought I saw going down,” Stannis Baratheon said slowly. 

“Possibly.” Sam looked up from the laptop. ““Mr. Baratheon? How did your parents happen to die? Were they drowned?”

“They’re living in a retirement community in Sunspear,” the client managed. “I talked to my father the other day. They were celebrating winning a bridge tournament.”

“I require quiet,” Mel hissed. 

Patchface did a backflip and sang, _“In the dark the dead are dancing,”_ and Shireen clapped.

“Fucking low-rent Pennywise-clone,” Asha muttered under her breath.

Mel began to recite another incantation. 

Patchface did not care for this at all and once again Shireen started to scream. And as if on cue, it began to storm outside. 

“The neighbors going to kick up a fuss again?” Davos asked the client.

Asha thought the client was far too concerned with what was happening to Shireen to worry about the couple with the elven silver hair and the middle-aged biddy down the hall. 

Patchface began to do cartwheels around Melisandre, splashing her and everyone around with saltwater as he went. Thunder and lightning punctuated his gymnastics.

_“Under the sea the mermen feast on starfish soup, and all the serving men are crabs.”_

“Now he’s singing from _Little Mermaid_? What the actual fuck?”

“That’s not from _Little Mermaid_ ,” Sam insisted. “Trust me, I have little sisters. I know.”

Asha was about to tell Sam what he could do with his Disney musical knowledge when Patchface evidently decided prove he could get even creepier. Patchface’s dancing grew more frenetic. 

_“I will lead it. We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming, oh, oh, oh.”_

“That does not sound good,” Sam announced.

Asha rolled her eyes. “You think?”

The power went out.

* * *

Barbrey focused on the task of making tea. Of all the things she had seen, and she had seen a lot---you couldn’t be related to Roose Bolton even by marriage and still be an innocent and the gods knew she’d been experiencing some strange things in this apartment—she had never seen anything quite like the psychotic-looking, face-tattooed, capering clown in the Baratheon apartment.

She still could not quite process what she had witnessed. Nor, Barbrey thought, could the girl with the extraordinary silver hair. 

Barbrey, could, however, go about removing china teacups and saucers from the cupboards. 

“You don’t have to go to any trouble,” Daenerys told her. 

She had made a cake a day ago. Barbrey still couldn’t get used to cooking just for herself. She usually threw out most of what she made, but the cake would come in handy for her company. She found dessert plates. 

“Seriously, I’m not that hungry.”

Barbrey shook her head. “I’m a northerner. This is what you do for a guest.”

“Oh.” And then a half beat later, Daenerys said, “Thanks. I just . . . I’m still shaken. Actually, do you have any Tylenol? My head is pounding.”

Barbrey didn’t even need to leave the kitchen. She handed the economy-sized bottle she’d purchased just the other day to Daenerys. The girl took three. Barbrey took four. 

“It must be all these storms.”

Perhaps that was it. The constant changes in barometric pressure might be triggering the headaches. 

Steam began to pour out of the kettle. Barbrey took it, filled, and then rinsed out the teapot before filling it again. Then carefully, she measured out the tea. 

“A mug and a teabag would be—”

“—not tea.”

As she went through the familiar, comforting ritual, she began to calm down.

The lights flickered and died. 

“Is that a circuit breaker or—”

From the renewed screams down the hall, Barbrey guessed not. “Stay where you are.”

“Viserys, my brother—I have to—”

As if on cue, the poor man’s Legolas started yelling his sister’s name. 

Barbrey pushed Daenerys down and yanked her neighbor in before he could start wandering toward what was doubtless chaos and insanity in the Baratheon apartment. “Both of you sit down. I know what I’m doing.”

She did. She pulled out the emergency kit and debated briefly about lighting candles before opting for the battery-powered lantern. The light would be better. She had a gas cooktop, extra batteries, a battery-operated radio, a hand-crank cell phone charger, and assorted supplies of canned food and bottled water. The situation didn’t call for these, at least not at the moment. 

Viserys gaped as the objects on the shelves on the wall she shared with the Baratheon apartment shook. 

They caught him up. 

“Shouldn’t we—” Daenerys began.

“No. It’s none of our business. Besides, what could we do?”

Viserys seemed torn. 

Barbrey deduced that he was not particularly brave, but that as he was the only man in the room, he felt he should do something. “We were just about to have some tea. Just move that stuff anywhere. Do you take anything in yours?”

“Uh, no. Thanks. Just plain is fine.” Viserys picked up the pile of mail in front of him and moved it between his sister and himself. 

“Oh, we have this,” Daenerys told her as she glanced at Domeric’s CD. “I liked his cover of ‘The Prince Who Was Promised.’”

“It was all right,” Viserys allowed. “But that will always be a Targaryen song and this Domeric Bolton is not a Targaryen.”

Barbrey cut another slice of cake. “What are Targaryens? Is that a style of music?”

“You must be joking.”

It came to her now. She’d never paid much attention to the music scene, but there had been that bizarre murder of the record producer. What had his name been? Aenys? Aaron? No, Aerys Targaryen. Yes, that was it. “I think I saw an HBO movie about him once. He went crazy and set his music studio on fire.”

“He was stabbed,” Viserys said savagely as he rubbed his temples.

“And there was a son? Was he a singer?” She vaguely remembered the film. Willem had been dying of cancer at that point and TV was something he could concentrate on, but it had been mostly background noise to her. 

The girl was troubled. “Rhaegar was famous. How can you not know who he was? He brought—”

“What were some of his songs?” The rain seemed to be horizontal now and the winds were whipping at the building mercilessly. “Oh. I remember now. He’s the one who ran off with Brandon’s little sister. Or tried to.” She smirked. 

Again they exchanged uneasy glances. 

“ _You_ knew Brandon Stark?” Viserys managed.

“In more than one sense of the word.” Barbrey cut Viserys another slice of cake. “I never knew his sister that well, though. Last I heard she was living on Skagos with her girlfriend and raising Alpacas or something.”

“Elia raises Angora rabbits,” Daenerys corrected. “And Lyanna is a sculptor.”

Barbrey wasn’t paying much attention. It was hard to focus with her headache, the storm, and the periodic screams coming from down the hall, although thankfully those were dying down again. She had a refrigerator and a freezer filled with groceries too. Back home, a power outage would not have mattered. One simply put those things outside in the snow, but here it got so warm. Food would spoil very quickly. But even as she considered how much the chuck roast had cost, a memory of an iconic album cover floated back to her. Rhaegar Targaryen had possessed flowing silver hair and almost purple eyes. She glanced at her company.

_Flowing silver hair and purple eyes . . ._

* * *

Davos would have given the rest of his remaining fingers for a good stiff drink. Judging by the way the rest of his team, the client, and the now spirit-free client’s daughter looked, he was not alone in this desire.

“What little we didn’t pour down the drain, my brother drank before he checked himself into the hospital,” Stannis Baratheon told them without being asked. 

“It’s fine,” Davos said easily. “I’m more concerned with your daughter right now.”

Shireen was trembling, even wrapped in a blanket. She accepted the cup of hot chocolate Sam had made her on the gas-powered range.

“I put in extra mini marshmallows. They always make me feel better.” 

“Thank you.” Shireen turned to Davos. “I’m all right. I think.” She sipped at the drink and then frowned. “Uh, Dad, why is there seaweed all over the bookcase?”

“Patchface got kind of athletic,” Asha explained as she helped the client light candles and place them about the living room. “Especially at the end. He’s gone, Mel? Right? Tell me it’s over and he’s gone?”

Melisandre refused the hot chocolate. “The fool is gone and will not trouble us again.” She hesitated. “Thank you, Asha, for dragging the fool off of me. And thank you, Davos, for holding down Shireen.”

Asha blinked. “No problem,” she managed.

Davos was equally surprised. Melisandre was never one for saying thank you. “You’re welcome.” 

“We’ll want to review the footage we took and do a debriefing,” he explained to Stannis. “With the storm . . .”

“Of course. And you will need to rest after the . . . ordeal. I will be happy to pay for you and associates to stay an extra night at the hotel.”

Shireen set down hot chocolate. “It’s awake.”

Davos thought how good it would feel to sleep for at least 24 hours. “What’s awake?”

“The dragon.”

* * *

Viserys was trying to explain to Barbrey why revenge mattered so much. She was not unsympathetic nor did she attempt to reason him out of it, but she had the most basic knowledge of the music business and she was mystified as to how the Baratheons came into it. The violent storm wasn’t helping. Every time he tried to explain another facet of the whole messed up business, lightning would strike with such force and so closely that they all three jumped. He’d already asked for and received Tylenol from the bottle on the table. It wasn’t kicking in.

Dany murmured a desire to be excused and armed with one of the five flashlights Barbrey had on hand, vanished into the darkness of the apartment toward the bathroom.

It sounded like she was talking to someone, but when Viserys asked Barbrey about it, she shook her head. “I live alone.”

He had the uneasy feeling that if he went to investigate, the sounds would shift again, the same way they did in their own apartment. Worse, he might hear his . . . No, he decided. He wasn’t going to think about that. 

“So it’s about the rights to your brother’s songs?” Barbrey hazarded. 

He sighed. “No, those are . . . well, some of them were willed to my nephew and niece.” Untangling the mess of the copyrights had proved harder than making one’s way out of the mazes of Lorath. “It’s more about what they did to my father.”

Barbrey nodded and waited for him to go on.

Ever since the power outage, the apartment had grown surprisingly cold, but Viserys found himself enjoying Barbrey’s company. She had a dry wit that he liked and she was a very attentive hostess. For most of his life, he’d always been ridiculed or even worse, ignored. After their mother had died, he’d been forced to take care of Dany. It was nice to be fussed over for once. And here in Barbrey Dustin’s kitchen, it was all so very . . . normal. “We came here because we were trying to track Robert Baratheon. Illyrio—he was one of Father’s managers, he told us that fat bastard was here, but he escaped us.”

“He’s drying out,” Barbrey told him as she poured him yet another cup of tea. “That’s what the janitor told me this morning. Came here with enough liquor to start his own pub and drank it all.”

Viserys pounded the table with his fist so hard that the dishes clattered.

“Careful. My sister is still bitter that I snagged this china from our mother’s estate before she could. I wouldn’t want to have to explain that one of my guests managed to destroy it.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just that . . . I . . .” Viserys wasn’t sure how to explain it, but he tried. They had been dreaming of restoring their family fortunes and revenge for years, but every time they grew close, their dreams turned into dust. They’d been too late for their mother, but when they finally located Elia intent on rescuing her, she had calmly informed them that she was exactly where she wanted to be. It was time they knew, Elia said, that their father had been barking mad and that Rhaegar hadn’t been much to write home about either. 

“Last dragon, my arse,” Lyanna had been heard to mutter in the background as Elia recounted instance after instance of their father’s insanity and Rhaegar’s stupidity. 

Barbrey listened. “And that’s when you decided to take down the Baratheons?”

“Yeah.” And even that had been problematic. The money was long gone, stolen it turned out by multiple parties and wasted on booze, drugs, and bad business deals. Two of the worst offenders were dead from overdoses. The third was still around, but Viserys and Daenerys were last in a very long line of creditors and ex-wives. “But that’s been a waste of time too. The youngest brother was younger than me at the time this was all happening. The middle brother—that’s the guy who lives down the hall—he had nothing to do with any of it. And Robert, well, you know more than we do.”

She had stopped paying attention, but was instead staring out the balcony, transfixed. 

“Am I boring you?” he demanded huffily.

Barbrey raised a thin finger and pointed. “Isn’t that your sister? How did she get all the way up there?”

Viserys peered out into the darkness. And then as lightning illuminated the garden walls, he understood why his hostess had lost interest in his life story. “What in the seven hells is she doing?”

“I think . . . I think she’s riding the dragon.”

* * *

Shireen was trying to follow what was going on with the Crownlands Paranormal Investigations people, but since she’d been possessed for most of their visit, it was very difficult. The shouting wasn’t helping. It had something to do with someone in the gardens, but every time she tried to get to the windows, the chubby guy in the green shirt kept on leading her back to the sofa and pressing the mug of hot chocolate into her hands.

The statuesque woman in red, Melisandre, had an intense expression on her face, but everyone else was yelling. 

“You said this was over,” her father seethed first to the nice man in charge. Davos, Shireen thought his name was. Then he turned to the woman in red. “You said Patchface was gone.”

“He _is_ gone!” Asha snapped. Shireen had no trouble remembering her name. Asha was the one with the mouth like a sailor. “You’re the one who didn’t tell us you had an actual fucking dragon in your garden!”

Dad took umbrage with this. “That thing is not _my_ dragon and the gardens are the property of the apartment building, not mine.”

“I think we’re getting a bit carried away.” Davos rubbed the back of his neck. “The only dragon I’m seeing out there is the stone one on top of the wall. Mel?”

Asha yanked the binoculars Stannis was holding away from him. “It’s that girl from down the hall. The one with the silver hair.” 

“I am surprised you remember,” he opined acidly as he pulled the binoculars back. “Given your drug-induced state at the time.”

“That was for seasickness. It’s not like I take drugs for recreational use, well not, mind-altering ones anyhow. Besides, if anyone is doing drugs, she is. She’s trying to ride a fucking statue.”

“There was something about stone dragons in that book I found.” Dr. Tarly held up a flashlight onto the keyboard of his laptop. “I downloaded it, so as long as I have battery power I won’t need the Internet.”

Shireen nodded. She thought she was the only one listening to him. 

“I am trying to concentrate,” the lady in red seethed.

“But Melisandre,” Dr. Tarly insisted. “If there’s historical information we could use—”

Shireen jumped as Dad fell onto the plant stand, dragging Asha and the binoculars on top of him. As they got untangled, righting the dying schefflera she took advantage and went to the windows. The more the lightning flashed, the easier it was to see. And sure enough, the woman from down the hall had somehow climbed out onto the tops of the former battlements onto one of the stone dragons, which was no longer entirely stone.

“Your namesake sacrificed his daughter to secure victory and to wake the dragon,” Dr. Tarly said.

“My namesake,” Dad said as he righted himself and then the plant stand, “was a character on a historically inaccurate TV show of whom my mother was once enamored.”

Melisandre opened her eyes. “Give me those binoculars.”

Dad handed them to her.

She peered through them. “That is no dragon. It’s a statue.”

“Even so, we should probably get her down from there,” Asha suggested. “Maybe she’s mental?”

Shireen didn’t really know. She took advantage of the gap to sneak in front of the window. “But it is a dragon and it is moving.”

Melisandre gave her the binoculars. “We need to get her down.”

“What do we do about the dragon?” Dr. Tarly asked.

Shireen could see the dragon very clearly. Lightning was flashing all around and its scales gleamed. The dragon’s head was turning toward the silver-haired girl and it flapped its wings. 

“There is no dragon, Sam.” Melisandre tapped Shireen on the shoulder. “Let him look. The girl is related to those people from down the hall?”

“You’re right,” Dr. Tarly said. His features drooped in obvious disappointment. 

Shireen stared at her father. “You can see it too, right?”

“Yes.” 

Davos turned to Dad. “How would she have gotten up there?”

“There are stone steps carved into the walls.”

For the first time since she’d come to, it seemed like the people from Crownlands Paranormal were acting like a team. Davos was asking about flashlights and where exactly the steps to the old tower walls were. Dr. Tarly was ransacking their closet for raingear. Asha and the exotic Melisandre were talking about what to do if the silver-haired girl wouldn’t come quietly. 

“But how come they can see this dragon and we can’t?” Dr. Tarly wanted to know as he struggled into a rain slicker three times too small. 

“We’ll worry about that later,” Asha replied.

“You’re actually volunteering to go out there in this,” Davos said to Dr. Tarly.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?”

Davos and Asha looked at each other and then at Dr. Tarly and Melisandre. 

Davos clapped Dr. Tarly on the back. “Yes, we are.”

Asha shook her head. “One of you go and tell that Elrond guy what we’re doing for his sister. Sam, you do that. Then how about you stay here and uh, make sure everyone keeps safe.”

Dr. Tarly was happy enough to do that and surrendered the rain slicker to Asha. He started to trundle off down the hall, when he looked back at them. “Be careful, guys.”

“You too.”

* * *

They were united again, and for that Sam was glad. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he felt like everything was back to normal. Well, as normal as Crownlands Paranormal Investigations ever got.

Certainly, all of his colleagues were sopping wet (Melisandre in particular looked like a cat who had been subjected to a bath against her will) and freezing, but they were united. 

The Seven knew they needed to be. 

The silver-haired girl who was equally soaked, but somehow wore it better, kept on trying to get up to go back outside. “Drogon needs me.”

“Drogon is a tacky-ass decaying piece of rock,” Asha said as both she and Davos forced Daenerys back down. “You’re damn lucky that statue didn’t crumble underneath you or we’d be scraping you and your bad dye job off the pavement.”

“My hair is not dyed!”

“SIT DOWN!” Davos roared. “You are not going back out there.”

Mrs. Dustin concurred. 

Within two minutes of his knocking on her door, she’d made him bring over Mr. Baratheon and Shireen to her apartment. Then she’d been ruthless about putting them all to work to prepare for the team’s return. By the time, his colleagues had got Daenerys down from the statue and back into the building, there were enough towels to have a white sale and oceans of hot water for tea. Mrs. Dustin reminded Sam of his father, at least of his father’s better qualities. She was practical. She saw instantly what needed to be done, knew how to get it done, and if she was very sarcastic, she worked just as hard as everyone else. Sam thought his father would like Mrs. Dustin.

“At least until we can figure out how to kill the dragon,” Mrs. Dustin said while peering through her own set of binoculars.

Then again, perhaps not. 

“Our ancestors used to ride the dragons,” Viserys repeated. 

Under ordinary circumstances, Sam would have been fascinated, but Viserys had been going on about this all while the team was trying to get Daenerys to release her death grip on the statue. He had been half scared for his sister’s well-being and half resentful that he was not out there riding it himself. “Three heads,” he repeated. “The dragon has three heads.”  
Shireen seemed taken with that. “I wonder what it would be like to a ride a dragon.”

“It’s a fucking statue,” Asha yelled. “We were out there. We touched it. It’s a hunk of rock.”

“As much as it pains me to say this,” Mr. Baratheon stated through gritted teeth, “it is not a statue. Statues do not turn their heads and roar.”

Davos held up his hand for quiet and got it. “Melisandre? Are you certain you’re sensing nothing?”

Melisandre sneezed violently. “It is a rock. There is no dragon.”

“But,” Shireen began.

Daenerys tried to get up, but fortunately her brother clamped her down on the shoulder. “Maybe I should go out there? Maybe it would respond better to me. I am a Targaryen after all.”

“Could it be like with the fool?” Sam asked. “Only Asha could see him at first.”

“And Mel too,” Asha pointed out. “And she wasn’t on anything.”

Mel shook her head. “The fool was real. The dragon is not.”

Barbrey returned to the table, opened up a Tylenol bottle and shook out three pills. “Anyone else?”

Viserys, Shireen, and Stannis held out their hands. Daenerys stopped struggling long enough to ask for some as well.

“You all have headaches?” Davos asked.

“For days now,” Barbrey said. 

The other tenants of the building all nodded. 

“I want a show of hands. Who can see that thing moving out there?”

The tenants alone could.

“Besides Patchface, have any of you experienced anything that you couldn’t explain? Sounds? Visions?”

“I keep hearing my mother calling me,” Viserys admitted. 

Daenerys was distracted enough that she shifted her fevered gaze from the window to her brother. “What?”

“I thought they were dreams or . . .” He glanced up from the steaming mug of tea. “Or that I was turning out like Father.”

“I’ve been hearing weird sounds too,” she said. “Like there’s a conversation in the next room, but when I get there, the voices have moved.”

Davos pointed to the shelf of half-dying and dead plants. “How long have those been like that?”

Barbrey didn’t know. “I am usually very good with houseplants. What does this have to do with the dragon?” 

Melisandre sneezed again and locked eyes with Davos. “That radio program.”

“Radio program?” Asha forced Daenerys down again. “What radio program?”

“ ‘This Westerosi Life,’ Mel and I listen to it sometimes when we’re on the road,” Davos explained. 

Sam knew WPR had a varied audience, but he would never have suspected that it counted Melisandre and Davos among its regular listeners.

“Does anyone else live on this floor?” Davos asked.

Mrs. Dustin shook her head. “The apartment on the other end of the hall is vacant.”

“Right. All of you out. Now.”

“You want us to go out into a massive electrical storm with an actual dragon,” Viserys demanded. “Because of a radio program?” 

Melisandre held her hand out for one of the still-wet yellow rain slickers. “No. Because you are all suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

* * *

Melisandre let Davos in.

He held up a bottle of rye. “Thought this might help.” Without waiting, he took two glasses from the television cabinet and poured a stiff measure into each.

Melisandre tightened the hotel terrycloth bathrobe, accepted the drink, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“The EMT said we got them out of there just in time.”

“It was just that floor?” She sneezed again. 

“The gas company thinks so.” Davos set his own drink down. He eyed the coffeemaker and filled it with water. “They’ll need to spend the next day or so at the hospital. The nurse I spoke with said they’ll have to undergo hyperbaric oxygen therapy, but they should all be fine. I didn’t say anything about Patchface being an actual supernatural entity.” 

Melisandre thought that was probably for the best. 

He sorted through the packets by the coffeemaker. “Greywater Watch, Myrish Breakfast, green tea, or Sleepytime?”

Melisandre reluctantly accepted the Sleepytime after extracting a promise that he wouldn’t breathe a word to Asha or Sam that she ever drank anything so mundane. 

Davos chuckled. “My lips are sealed. Although Asha has never thought you’re anywhere as exotic as you seem—she has a theory that you were raised in a trailer park in Rosby, that your name is really just Melony, and that you go home every night to watch HGTV.”

Melisandre decided serenity was the only possible reaction to present.

“She and Sam ordered a pizza. She wanted to know if you wanted a slice or two. I’m going to call her and tell them to come over here so we can eat. I thought we could pull up that episode of ‘This Westerosi Life’ and listen together.”

“I do not eat pizza.”

Davos shrugged. “It was a gesture on her part. Asha is telling you that she forgives you for lying about the hotel job.”

She fingered the thick fabric of the terrycloth robe. “Do _you_ forgive me?”

“I should have thought that was obvious.”

“Sam said you wanted to grow and sell heirloom vegetables. Onions.”

Davos got up from the arm chair and set his drink on the nightstand. He sat down on the other bed, stretched his legs out, and directed the remote at the television. “Now what in the seven hells would I know about onions?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photoset [here](http://grammarsaveslives.tumblr.com/post/127708221537/and-now-the-conclusion-to-the-final-story-in-my)
> 
> The text from the radio program comes directly from “This American Life” - [ And the Call Was Coming from the Basement](http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/319/transcript). That link should take you to the transcript, but I really recommend listening to it. I've read the medical paper that they discuss and it's fascinating. 
> 
> All of Patchface's "dialogue" is taken from the books. The only changes may be in how I parsed it out.  
> Thanks to the incomparable [Vana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana) who keeps me sane.


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